Her shoulders slumped with the weariness of an eleven-hour shift, navigated the labyrinthine arteries of the forgotten sector. The air, thick with the metallic tang of industry and the ever-present scent of damp earth, pressed in on her, a familiar blanket of an existence lived entirely beneath the surface. In her calloused hands, she clutched a sturdy, composite-fibre caddy, its contents a collection of well-worn tools: a stiff-bristled scrub brush, a dispenser gun for potent sanitiser, and a tangle of stained cloths. These were the instruments of her trade, the tools of a toilet sanitisation specialist, a janitor in the grimy underbelly of a city that had long forsaken its foundations.
She toiled in the offices that clung to life in this decrepit, underground section, places where flickering neon struggled against perpetual gloom. Her daily reality was a collage of fractured, uneven floors that threatened to trip the unwary, rivers of broken drainage systems that leaked their foul contents into narrow corridors, and the constant, biting contempt of her clients. They were the ones who saw not a person, but an extension of the waste they produced, their dismissive gestures and clipped tones a familiar soundtrack to her days. But now, the shift was over, and a deep, bone-aching freedom settled upon her.
Time, as a concept tied to the sun's arc, was meaningless here. Like every other resident of this subterranean world, she had never felt the warmth of natural light on her skin, never witnessed a sunrise or a sunset. Their days were measured by the glow of synthetic lamps and the hum of the vast, intricate machinery that kept their sector alive. Occasionally, the tempting whisper of the surface – a mythical realm of open skies and fresh air – would brush against her thoughts. But the decision to leave this underground civilization, to venture into one of the surface districts, was a risk too profound. She knew the name of the danger: the Black Lexors, whose reach was long and whose justice was swift and often brutal for those who transgressed their strictures, especially those from the forgotten sector. She couldn't risk a clash with them; she couldn't risk her children's lives.
Her deepest desire was for her children to carve out a better life, a life untainted by the constant abuse she endured. Daily, she faced the casual cruelty of her clients, their snide remarks and the way they would leave messes far beyond the scope of a simple cleaning. Then there were the visitors from the surface districts, draped in clothing that hinted at privilege, their voices laced with an affected superiority. They acted as though the very air down here was beneath them, yet with her sharp, street-honed perception, saw through their thin veneer. She could detect the subtle tremors in their hands, the haunted looks in their eyes, the nervous tics that betrayed the hardships they, too, faced in their supposedly enlightened world.
Most of these transient figures were dealers, their pockets heavy with illicit gains, or stern-faced officials dispatched to verify the sector's convoluted tax codes. Some were fugitives, seeking anonymity in the labyrinthine depths, while others were ambitious entrepreneurs, hoping to exploit the sector's unregulated markets, or simply individuals seeking a fresh start, a clean slate away from the judgment of the surface. But few lasted long. The unyielding pressures of the forgotten sector – the squalor, the despair, the absence of natural light – often swallowed them whole. Many drowned their sorrows in drug abuse, their eyes growing vacant, their bodies withering, or simply succumbed, ending their own lives in quiet, desperate acts. A few, however, adjusted their lifestyles, mostly because they had little left to lose, little to live up to in the world above. Observing these diverse individuals, their varying reactions to the sector's harsh realities, made her hyper-conscious of everything and everyone around her, cultivating a weary vigilance that rarely abated.
It was this pervading sense of dissatisfaction, this gnawing desire for a different future for her children, that had prompted a momentous decision years ago. She had sent her son, then a boy, to train under Solomon, widely regarded as one of the finest doctors in the sector, not just for his medical prowess but for his profound compassion. In this hellhole, Solomon had somehow managed to cultivate an oasis of care, treating the downtrodden and the desperate with an almost saintly grace. She herself had first encountered him after contracting a rare and terrifying lung illness, a common blight in the dust-choked depths. His empathetic demeanor and effective treatment had resonated deeply. Afterwards, she had made it her mission to learn everything she could about him, to verify his character, and once assured, she had taken a monumental leap of faith, entrusting her son to his care.
It was a gamble, a fervent hope that nothing ill would befall her child. Eleven years later, that leap had paid off beyond her wildest dreams. Her son had blossomed into a positive, grounded man, a source of immeasurable pride for both her and her husband. Though he had developed a passionate obsession with medical practices, delving deep into the sector's unique ailments and treatments, he remained a fundamentally good person, empathetic and kind. And that, more than any wealth or status, was all she had ever truly wanted for him.
A sudden, insistent grumble from her own stomach pulled her back to the present. Hopefully, her husband, had already returned home from his arduous shift. He worked in a scrap dealership much further west, near the very gates that periodically opened to the surface, Sector 13, a bleak, perpetually grey landscape. She hoped he would have managed to prepare supper for them all. Her two children, she realized, would be ravenous by now. The sudden, vivid image of their expectant faces, their rumbling little bellies, spurred her onward. She quickened her pace, the rhythmic scuff of her worn boots on the broken pavement echoing her renewed resolve. Home, and the promise of family, was just a few more turns away.
As she walked on, the incessant chatter from a nearby radio vendor and the hushed, urgent whispers of passersby coalesced into a single, chilling piece of news: a medical center had gone up in flames, claiming one casualty. She had heard the reports earlier that day, dismissed casually as the usual grim backdrop of their city. Probably just some junkies, desperate for a fix, trying to rob one of those fringe clinics, and their plan backfiring, she'd thought, pushing the unsettling images away. But now, the details seemed to cling to her, stirring a deeper, more personal dread. What if it was Solomon's clinic? What if the casualty was him? The possibility, though slim, tightened a knot of fear in her stomach. Her son, Lorian, with his uncanny ability to "make things blow up" – a euphemism for the raw, untamed power he possessed – could surely defend the old man, a surrogate grandfather to him. Yet, these negative thoughts, like insidious shadows, threatened to interfere with her morale, a luxury she couldn't afford to lose.
But just to be sure, to quell the creeping anxiety, she decided. She would prepare some hearty sandwiches, packed with lean, healthy opossum meat, and personally deliver them to Solomon and her son. It had been three days, and she knew how particular Solomon was about his meals, especially his meat. The thought of his inevitable grumbling, despite her efforts, evoked a small, fond chuckle that escaped her lips. The sound caused a group of sallow-faced children, huddled for shelter under a rusted sheet of corrugated iron by the roadside, to look up, their eyes wide and silent.
She couldn't resist the unspoken plea in their gaunt faces. Reaching into a worn pouch, she tossed a small, tarnished coin their way. It was enough, she calculated, for a loaf of coarse bread and perhaps even a pair of shoes each for their bare, grimy feet. The thought of them walking through the filth and refuse of the streets, vulnerable to every infection, was unbearable. She watched as the children, galvanized by the unexpected gift, scrambled out of their makeshift shelter, their movements a blur of thin limbs. They snatched up the coin, clutching it like a treasure, and then vanished into the dense, swirling crowd of the street. A small, genuine smile touched her lips, a brief warmth in the cold landscape of her worries.
After a walk that felt much longer than an hour, she arrived at her tenement building. She ascended the rickety, creaking metal stairs, the sound echoing in the stale air of the stairwell, until she reached her small room on the third floor. She gave a familiar, rhythmic knock – two quick taps, then one long one. The door creaked open, revealing two small girls, almost identical in their wide, curious eyes. One had her dark hair completely shaved, a practical measure against the omnipresent lice and grime, while the other had hers tied into a tight, practical bun. Their mother pulled them into an affectionate hug, the scent of their worn clothes familiar and comforting.
"Is Toka home?" she asked, her voice soft. A weak "Yes, in the kitchen," drifted from the back of the room. A moment later, her husband, Toka, emerged from the cramped space beneath the kitchen counter, where he often worked on small repairs, clutching two dented cans of processed food. She walked over to him, pressed a kiss to his stubbled cheek, and began to help him prepare their dinner, adding the fragrant herbs she had managed to acquire on her way home.
She told him of her plan, her voice filled with a mother's anticipation, to surprise their son and the old doctor with the opossum sandwiches. Toka listened, a wistful look in his eyes. He regretted deeply that he couldn't accompany her, explaining, as he always did, that someone had to stay to look after the little girls. She promised to send his greetings, remarking with a light chuckle that Solomon would surely be disappointed he wasn't joining them, having a particular fondness for Toka's quiet company and sharp wit.
A few minutes later, the meager but warm meal was ready. Its inviting scent wafted through the small room, instantly alerting the two girls, who had been quietly playing on the floor. They quickly sat up, their excitement palpable, as their mother served up the food. "I'm going to meet up with your big brother tonight," she told them, and they giggled, their faces lighting up at the thought. "And I'll relay your greetings," she added, making them squeal with delight. As she walked towards the door, Toka called out, his voice tinged with a familiar worry, "Don't take long, alright?" She waved a dismissive hand, a confident smile playing on her lips. "It's our son," she replied, as if that explained everything.
She reached for the door handle, her hand cool against the metal. With a gentle push, the door swung inward. But instead of stepping out, she froze, her body rigid, every muscle locked. Her breath hitched in her throat, her eyes widening in uncomprehending horror.
Lorian stood there, not alone, not well. He was carrying a man, a stranger, whose arm ended in a grotesque, mangled stump, blood staining his tattered clothes. Behind Lorian, another young man, gaunt and grim, of a similar age, held the limp, unconscious form of a girl. "Help," Lorian croaked, his voice broken, tears streaming down his grimy face as he stumbled into the small tenement room. The second young man, Izari, followed, his eyes scanning the room with a practiced, wary glance.
The children's excited giggles died instantly, replaced by wide-eyed confusion and a dawning fear. Lorian didn't pause, didn't even acknowledge them. He raced past his bewildered sisters, towards the single cramped room they all shared as a bedroom. With a frantic efficiency, he knelt, pried up one of the loose floorboards, and pulled out a small, tarnished key. He used it to unlock a hidden drawer in an old cabinet, revealing a stash of medicinal drugs, syringes, and bandages – a secret cache for emergencies.
Without a moment's hesitation, he got to work. His hands, usually so gentle, moved with a surgeon's precision. He swiftly sanitized the severely injured man's raw, severed arm, then expertly re-bandaged it, movements fluid and practiced. Finally, he injected a strange, glowing liquid into the man's neck. Then, his attention shifted to the unconscious girl. He helped Izari carefully lay her down on the patched rug, his brow furrowed with concentration. He checked her pulse, listened to her strained, rattling breathing, and swiftly administered appropriate procedures to stabilize her. Another injection of the enigmatic liquid followed.
His family stood transfixed, a silent, confused tableau around them. His mother, father, and two sisters watched, bewildered, as Lorian worked, a cold dread seeping into the small room.
Lorian slowly looked up from his grim task, his tear-streaked gaze sweeping over their faces before finally locking onto his mother's distraught, pale features. In that shared, agonizing moment, he saw it: she knew. Her worst, unspoken fears were confirmed.
"N...no...no," she muttered, a broken whisper that barely escaped her lips. Lorian, seeing her silent anguish, finally broke. He launched himself into her arms, his body wracked with uncontrollable sobs that shook them both. "Please... no," she managed to stutter, her own tears now flowing freely, mingling with his.
"What happened?" she finally choked out, her voice raw with grief. Lorian pulled back slightly, avoiding her gaze, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an answer beyond his own understanding. "They... they came from the front door," he whispered, a tremor in his voice. Then, his face hardened, every trace of his earlier tears vanishing, replaced by a chilling seriousness. "Don't worry, Ma," he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion, "they're dead. They're all dead."
A cold shock ran through her. This wasn't the Lorian she had raised, the boy who worried about stepping on ants. He wasn't the one to talk so casually, so chillingly, about taking human lives. Even if they had killed Solomon, even if they had desecrated his clinic, Lorian needn't have retaliated like this. But now, as she looked at her son, ravaged by grief and something far darker, she knew this was not the time for reproach. He was in a dire situation, broken and vulnerable, and he needed her, perhaps now more than ever. She pulled him into another embrace, a warmer, tighter hug this time, a desperate attempt to mend what had been so violently fractured. "Don't worry," she murmured into his hair, a whispered lie of comfort. "Everything's okay now." As she spoke, Lorian's sobs lessened, his body still trembling, but less intensely. He finally pulled away, offering her a weak, ghost of a smile, and she mirrored it, a desperate plea for normalcy.
His two sisters, their initial fear replaced by a child's innocent need to comfort, tentatively patted his shoulders with their small hands. Lorian responded with a tired nod and a fleeting, genuine smile, which seemed to reassure them. They immediately began to proudly relay their comforting efforts to their father, who wisely steered them back towards their waiting plates. "Now, now, kids, eat up before it gets cold," Toka said, his voice gentle but firm, trying to restore a semblance of order to their shattered evening.
With a reassuring nod to Lorian, Toka walked over to Izari, who remained kneeling beside Rona, the man with the severed arm. Rona lay still, pale and unmoving, a testament to the night's horrors. "You hungry?" Toka asked, his voice low, to the dazed young man. Izari looked up, momentarily confused. "Yeah, uh, sure," he mumbled, still somewhat disoriented, as he slowly pushed himself to his feet. Toka's eyes, however, were drawn to Izari's form. Every wound, every scratch on his body, had now miraculously healed, leaving only dried, flaky patches of blood as evidence of what had been. Toka's eyebrows raised almost imperceptibly, a flicker of surprise and understanding in his gaze., Toka thought, a quiet acknowledgement of a shared, extraordinary gift. He then led Izari to where the girls were eating, offering him his own plate. "You can have my share," Toka said with a small, kind smile. "It's clear you need it more than I do."
"Thanks," Izari muttered under his breath, taking the warm plate. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he was immensely glad that the nightmare was, for the time being, over – or so he desperately hoped. The Seer was still out there, a shadow lingering on the edges of his mind, and so were those grotesque creatures from the deep warrens: empty shells of mutated human bodies with no souls, perhaps even replaced by something else entirely. Something ancient. Something alien. But he had finally done the job. Cassia was still alive, barely, but alive, and now the Seer couldn't afford to be careless with his next actions. He exhaled a long, shuddering sigh of relief as he realized that Rona and Cassia were, for the moment, safe. This new, terrifying revelation of a sprawling cult beneath the city, of horrifying aberrations, of portals to a literal hell, and of a girl with psionic abilities far more powerful than even those wielded by the infamous Black Lexors, was utterly overwhelming. Yet, amidst the chaos and trauma, he had something tangible, something undeniably good, to look forward to: money. Seventy thousand credits in total. For the first time since this whole brutal altercation began, a genuine spark of happiness ignited within him. All he had to do was wait for Rona to wake up, and then it would be his turn to fulfill his part of the deal. He couldn't wait to tell... Oh no. Janice.
He had completely forgotten about Janice. A wave of guilt, sharp and sudden, washed over him. Slowly rising from the floor, still feeling the phantom aches of injuries that no longer existed, he walked over to the two girls. "Do you have any paper?" he asked, his voice a little strained. Without a word, one of them offered him a worn, much-loved storybook lying on the floor. He carefully tore a clean sheet from it, then, with a borrowed pen, swiftly wrote down his contact information. He folded the piece of paper meticulously, the two children watching his every move with wide, curious eyes. He then handed the folded note to Lorian.
"Give it to him when he wakes up," he instructed, his voice low. Lorian nodded, a silent promise. Then, something deeper, a sense of shared ordeal and an unspoken bond, compelled Izari. He pulled Lorian up to his feet, their eyes meeting, before asking, "So, what's next for you?"
Lorian looked down at the floor for a long moment, then met Izari's gaze, a flicker of new resolve in his eyes. "I don't know," he admitted, a raw vulnerability in his tone. "Well, I'll give the old man a proper burial, and then... I'll see if I can reopen the clinic." This reply seemed to satisfy Izari, as if calming a restless part of his own soul, assuaging any lingering fears he might have harbored about the future.
"I'm glad to hear that," Izari replied, a note of finality in his voice as he turned to leave. "I don't think I can be of much help now, but... you can call anytime, okay?"
"The same goes for you," Lorian replied, his voice still hoarse, but with a new, quiet strength.
"Sure, thanks for the meal." Izari murmured, the dry words barely carrying as he pushed away from the table, the lingering scent of Rona's stew clinging to his worn coat. He stepped out of the cramped, surprisingly warm dwelling, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that echoed in the cold, damp air of the lower city.
Once he hit the grime-covered streets, a new urgency seized him. His pace quickened, boots slapping against slick cobblestones, the distant hum of the ventilation shafts a monotonous drone. He navigated the labyrinthine tunnels, the air thick with the metallic tang of old rust and the faint, acrid smell of waste, his eyes scanning for familiar markers. Rona's navigation was always a chaotic ballet of shortcuts and tight squeezes, and Izari had to strain, replaying the zigzagging turns in his mind, until a familiar ladder appeared, almost swallowed by shadows.
He scaled it quickly, muscles protesting, until his hand met the cool, ridged metal of a hatch. With a grunt, he pushed it open, a blast of unfiltered wind and the cacophony of the surface world assaulting his senses. He tumbled out onto Sector 7. The difference was stark: fluorescent light replaced the dim, flickering bulbs of below, and the low, constant rumble of industry was now overlaid with the aggressive blare of a thousand competing voices and hawkers. Pushing through the bustling, indifferent crowds, a surge of adrenaline propelled him forward. He ran, a gaunt shadow against the garish neon, until he finally skidded to a halt before a familiar, squat building. Its once-white facade was now stained with years of industrial soot, but it was home. Or, had been.
He took the stairs two at a time, his breath ragged, the worn treads groaning under his weight. Up to the third floor, then a mad dash down the peeling corridor, past rooms whose doors were firmly shut, until he reached number 27. The door stood slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness beckoning. A cold dread seeped into his bones even before he stepped inside.
The room was gutted. The emptiness hit him first, raw and desolate. Dust motes danced in the sliver of light from the open door, swirling in the space where his mattress had been, where his flimsy shelf had once sagged under the weight of scavenged tech. The bare wires of his light bulb fixture hung limply from the ceiling, a silent testament to its absence. His meager pile of clothes, his few personal effects – all gone. Only a handful of dog-eared books, scattered like discarded leaves, and a single, unadorned cremation urn remained, lying forlornly on the cracked, concrete floor. The lid was askew, a faint residue of ashen grey spilled beside it.
With a heavy sigh that felt ripped from the depths of his chest, Izari knelt, his fingers trembling slightly as he began to meticulously, slowly, gather the split ash and carefully return it to the urn. This was more than just property; it was a memory, a tether. As he focused, a shift in the air, a faint shuffle behind him, registered. In that instant, instinct overrode exhaustion. He reacted, a primal surge of panic and defiance. Quickly turning, he lashed out with a wild, desperate punch, aiming for the unseen intruder.
Janice, quick as a viper, ducked under his flailing fist, her own hand already rising, a compact pistol gleaming dully in the dim light, aimed steadily at his chest. The distinct click of the safety being disengaged echoed in the hollow room.
"What the hell is wrong with you!" she demanded, her voice sharp, the threat clear, even as her eyes widened slightly in surprise.
"Oh, it's you." Izari sagged, the adrenaline draining away, replaced by a weary relief. He gently placed the urn upright, securing the lid with a click that, this time, felt final.
"Who else could it be?" she replied, holstering her weapon with a practiced ease, a hint of self-assured arrogance lacing her tone, a slight smirk playing on her lips. It was Janice, alright.
"So, how did it go?" he asked, pushing himself to his feet, trying to ignore the stark emptiness of his surroundings.
"First of all," Janice retorted, her gaze sweeping across the plundered room, her eyes wide with bewilderment and a flicker of professional indignation, "what the hell happened here?"
"Isn't it obvious," Izari mumbled, gesturing vaguely with one hand.
"You got robbed. Who the hell had the guts to rob you?" she inquired, her eyebrows raised in genuine disbelief.
"I left the door open," he responded, shoulders slumping, his voice laced with dejection.
"Whyy?" Janice stepped closer, a crease forming between her brows.
"Some crazy cult dude was chasing me," Izari replied, the memory of the wild-eyed man in ragged robes, shouting prophetic nonsense, still vivid.
Janice paused, a flicker of concern replacing her usual bravado. "Should I be worried about you?"
"Nah." Izari managed a thin, brittle smile, a poor attempt at reassurance. Janice let out a short, dry chuckle, surveying the devastation. "So, uh, from the ground up?"
Izari sighed, a deep, rattling sound, and sat heavily on the cracked floor, ignoring the grit that immediately adhered to his clothes.
"I don't know how to tell you this, but I've got more bad news." Janice's expression shifted, her face hardening, all traces of amusement vanishing.
Izari groaned, covering his ears with his hands, a futile attempt to ward off the next blow. "No, no, no, I can't," he muttered.
"I talked to him," she continued, her voice cutting through his protest. This got his attention. His hands dropped, his head lifting slowly, eyes fixed on her. "And?" he inquired, a new, desperate hope mixing with dread in his voice.
Janice went silent, her gaze falling to the floor, her jaw clenching. She opened her mouth, a heavy breath escaping.
"We…"
Her statement was cut brutally short by the sound of heavy, deliberate boots thudding to a halt directly in front of Izari. The air in the room seemed to thicken, pressing down. Izari's eyes widened, recognizing the distinct, custom-made leather with a sickening lurch. He immediately scrambled to his feet, a sudden, desperate energy coursing through him.
"Boss." Janice gasped, her own voice barely a whisper, a mixture of fear and reluctant deference.
Izari, however, ignored her. His gaze was locked, unblinking, on the person who now filled his doorway. Esme. His presence alone seemed to dwarf the already desolate room. His eyes, cold and sharp, met his.
"Esme." He breathed, the name a challenge, a plea, a damnation.
His lips barely moved, but the single word he uttered resonated with a chilling finality.
"Rurik."